


Blackmail

by JessicaMDawn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bored Sherlock, Case Fic, Cell Phones, Crime Fighting, M/M, Photographs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-19
Updated: 2011-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessicaMDawn/pseuds/JessicaMDawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade discovers Sherlock's love of John through a picture, and uses it against him. Shamelessly. Eventual Sherlock/John</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the sherlockbbc livejournal's Make Me a Monday – Week 49 prompt by mushroom18: Sherlock uses a photo of John as his wallpaper in laptop/mobile phone or vice versa. Somebody sees it. Cue blushes and denials and what have you.
> 
> Regardless of the fact that this prompt was given on 8/15, and I'm only now finished filling it on 9/19...

The search was a complete ruse. Sherlock watched as Lestrade and his men hustled into the old office building like bees to flowers, but he just wandered in slowly after them.

He'd told Lestrade the one hacking the Yard's computers was operating out of this old office building. It used to be a regional center of a bigger corporation, but when they downsized, they'd dropped this section like a rock. Now the building was home to rats and flies, and maybe a homeless person or two sometimes. Sherlock had contacted his Network and told them to evacuate the building for a few days, so it was just him, John, Lestrade's men, and the rats.

Sherlock took the stairs at an almost leisurely pace, but his stride was almost something predatorial. John had gone ahead with the rest of the police, so he was alone. Glancing up, Sherlock saw a man with light hair amongst the men rushing up the stairs and searching each floor. The man hesitated at the door to one of the floors while the rest of his comrades rushed through to continue the search. Sherlock grinned.

"Excuse me. Yates, is it?" Sherlock greeted amicably, stepping up behind the man where he stood.

Yates jumped and turned around. "What is it, Mr. Holmes?" he asked. His eyes glanced briefly to the left and then back up at Sherlock. He didn't meet Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock smiled for a moment and then let it drop. "I was just wondering how much you're actually getting paid for all these Yard secrets," he stated like it was as simple as the weather outside. Yates tensed.

"I don't know what you-"

"Because, you see," Sherlock interrupted, letting his gaze travel, "I don't see anything you've stolen being worth more than, oh….one fifty quid a piece. Maybe three hundred for that bit about the Victor case, but come now."

Sherlock glanced down just in time to see the fist aimed straight at his face. Dodging to the right, Sherlock reached out and grabbed Yates' wrist and twisted. Yates twisted with the movement, but he kicked out at the same moment. Sherlock felt his legs knocked from under him and released Yates' wrist to catch himself on the railing.

"Really," Sherlock puffed out. "This is hardly necessary." He flipped around and punched out at the same time. His fist landed on Yates' chest, but it didn't seem to faze the younger man in the slightest. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. A bulletproof vest? Not to mention four days a week at a gym doing intensive training, based on the tone of his muscles. "Oh dear."

Yates smirked and grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders. He literally threw Sherlock down the stairs, which was good because Sherlock missed the stairs themselves, but was bad because he smacked into the wall at the next turn and then fell forward onto the bottom steps. He groaned.

"John."

"Put your hands in the air, sir," John's voice echoed out in the stairwell.

Sherlock lifted himself up off the stone to look up at where John and Yates were standing. John held Yates at gun point, almost point blank. His eyes were bright and serious. Yates would have to be mad to defy him, or that was Sherlock's opinion. Yates reached out like lightening, grabbing at John's gun. John dropped his hands about two inches, let go with his right hand, and punched Yates square in the jaw. Yates stumbled backward in surprise and John held his gun up again.

"Hands up. Now. Or I will shoot you," John said like a deadly promise.

Sherlock stumbled to a stand, a smile fighting for purchase on his lips. Sometimes John was simply amazing.

…

…

When John woke up the next morning, it was to a crash from downstairs. Sherlock glanced up from the mess of books on the ground to the door as John rushed in.

"What is it? What happened?" John asked quickly, still pulling his shirt on properly.

Sherlock sniffed, blinked hard, and looked back down at the books. "I tried to look behind the pile and ended up overturning it instead," he responded monotonously.

John shook his head in disbelief. "What?" He shook his head again, but more to clear than anything it seemed. "What were you looking for?"

For a long moment, Sherlock just let his eyes search around the floor near him. Then he scanned the room once, quickly. "Nothing," he said swiftly. He strode across the room in a few simple steps, grabbed his coat from the rack, and put it on. "I'm going out for a bit. Don't wait up."

"What?" John asked again. "Where are you going?" he called down the stairs after the detective.

Sherlock shook his head and glanced up at John briefly. "Nowhere of importance." He continued on his way. "I'll be back."

The door shut behind him and any retort of John's was lost in the street noise of a waking London. Sherlock couldn't tell John he'd lost his phone. He'd never hear the end of it. He highly doubted John would tease him about it, at least not for very long, but he couldn't afford to have anyone – especially John – look at his phone. Thinking about it now, he felt like a total tosser. He never should have misplaced his phone, for one, but he never should have taken those pictures, either.

Having searched the flat from top to bottom, Sherlock knew his phone wasn't there. And he'd had his phone with him yesterday afternoon when he'd met with Lestrade about the case. That meant he must have lost it either during the false takeover of the office building, or in Lestrade's office afterward.

Sherlock caught a cab to the building where they'd apprehended Yates yesterday. He knew for a fact he himself had never left the stairwell. He looked everywhere anyway. Every hall up to the fourth floor, where he'd had his skirmish, and the stairs all the way up. The phone wasn't there. He retraced every moment of his time, every motion of the fight, but even checking every angle the phone could have flown out of his coat did not provide any clues.

That left only one place left, and it was the last place Sherlock wanted it to be: Scotland Yard. If Lestrade found his phone…or worse, Donovan or Anderson, or any of those peons Lestrade worked with who used less than ten percent of their brain and couldn't find their way out of a paper bag-

Sherlock forced himself to breathe evenly as another cab escorted him across the city to visit one of his least favorite places.

It was just after eleven when Sherlock made his way through the station. He walked with a steady, smooth air, like he owned the world. He didn't care about any of the people in this room. Not one bit. But his eyes trailed over every desk, every available surface, and every face of every officer he passed or saw. Any one of them could have his phone. It could be anywhere.

"Ah, Sherlock," a friendly voice called out, not too loud, "Just the man I wanted to see." Sherlock turned and acknowledged Lestrade with a curt nod. Lestrade tilted his head backward and to the right a bit, indicating his office behind him. "Come on in. I wanted to speak with you about something."

Sherlock walked past Lestrade, into the office, and Lestrade shut the door behind him. While Sherlock didn't sit, Lestrade strode around his desk to his chair and flopped down graciously. "Is it a new case?" Sherlock asked, even though there was no file on Lestrade's desk. Lestrade's body language also spoke of confidence…of knowing something other people don't and feeling powerful for it.

Lestrade shook his head. "No. I was just wondering if you were missing a phone." Sherlock forced himself not to flinch. An easy smile was spreading across Lestrade's face. "Because, funnily enough, I found a phone in that office building from yesterday and, once I'd gotten through the blasted lock on the main screen, I found the most interesting things."

"Lestrade," Sherlock said in warning.

Lestrade's smile just seemed to grow more pleased. "So it is yours then. Bloody confusing password on your phone," he complained, but it sounded light and airy. Sherlock frowned deeper. "You know, I never really believed it when you claimed you were a sociopath, or asexual, or whatever. Now I know I was right."

"Lestrade, stop it. You're talking nonsense," Sherlock tried, his tone as monotonous as ever and his speech quick. "Just hand me my phone and we'll pretend this never happened."

Lestrade frowned. "Sherlock, really. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I know it isn't."

If anything, that made Lestrade frown more. "I don't think that's true." He looked away from Sherlock as he opened the top drawer of his desk. When he shut it and sat up again, Sherlock saw his phone in Lestrade's hands. Lestrade quickly ran Sherlock's code into the touch screen on the phone and held it up for Sherlock to see. "Look."

The image that constituted Sherlock's phone background was of John Watson. He was lying on the couch in their flat, sleeping under a red blanket with a Union Jack pillow under his head. Sherlock remembered. He'd been the one to place the blanket over John that day, after John had come home from the surgery looking like a zombie. John hadn't even had dinner that night. He'd simply laid down on the couch and fallen asleep. Sherlock hadn't been able to help himself. He'd snapped the photo before he even fully realized what he was doing.

"So?" he asked in a bored manner. He didn't reach for the phone. He knew Lestrade wouldn't let him have it. He was trying to make a point, but Sherlock would not submit.

Lestrade sighed and turned the screen of the phone back toward himself. After a few flicks of his finger, he turned the screen back to Sherlock. The picture now was of John sitting in the lounge chair, a fire in the hearth behind him, reading a book. His left leg was bent sideways, his left ankle propped on his right knee. His right hand was holding the book while he leaned on his left in an almost contemplative pose. The whole image seemed warm and homey from the light of the flames dancing on the walls, the chair, and John himself.

Sherlock looked away from the picture, to a framed photo of Lestrade from his school days to Sherlock's left.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said in an exasperated tone. "You've got eight pictures of John on this phone. Just admit you like him and everything'll be easier."

"No it won't." Sherlock fixed Lestrade with a sharp gaze. "Now give me my phone, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade's lips pressed together and his eyes seemed to pierce right through Sherlock. It wasn't a look he was used to receiving and he decided he didn't like it.

"You don't want anyone to know, do you?" Sherlock didn't answer. "That's it, isn't it? Well, in that case…I'll give this back." Lestrade held the phone out to Sherlock. Sherlock reached out to the phone. At the last moment, Lestrade pulled back and Sherlock frowned. "But you have to agree to something first."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Blackmail, Lestrade? That's not your style."

Lestrade shrugged. "Maybe not, but I know your secret. You're human, just like anyone else. Just like John," he emphasized. Sherlock frowned deeper. Lestrade knew he had him and he wasn't letting go. "So, are you ready to make a deal?"


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was bored.

Bored.

Bored.

Bored.

Bored.

Why were all the cases he'd done recently so supernaturally _boring?_ None of them challenged him! They were all so simple! Why?

Sherlock watched as a police car drove up and frowned when DI Lestrade was the first man out of the car.

"Of course," Sherlock grumbled out under his breath.

"You say something, Sherlock?" John asked from beside him. He was sitting on the back of a twenty-three year old that he and Sherlock had caught minutes ago who was wanted for a small robbery case that happened last week.

Sherlock shook his head briefly just as Lestrade got over to them. "He's all yours," Sherlock said, barely refraining from grinding it out between his teeth. He turned and swiftly walked away, not even looking to see if John was following. He knew the doctor would.

The past three weeks had been living hell for Sherlock. Lestrade seemed to be throwing every single case he had at Sherlock. An old woman had mysteriously died in her home. A quick look around the house and Sherlock pointed at the son. A series of small time robberies. A glance at the demographics and location of the houses affected and Sherlock was at the door of the middle aged perpetrator. A little girl was missing. One short talk with the parents later and Sherlock led Lestrade to the aunt's house, where the mom had stashed her away while she extorted her husband for all he was worth. For goodness sake, he'd even found two lost dogs and a missing snake!

When Lestrade had offered to keep Sherlock's secret a secret, Sherlock had thought he'd gotten off easy. Take on and solve any case given to him. Easy. Sherlock had the most brilliant mind on the planet - as far as he knew right now, but he was open to suggestions - so solving cases was like….not eating or sleeping for a few days, for him at least. But all these mindless, pointless, simple quibbles were about to drive him mad!

John, amazingly, didn't say a word to Sherlock until they were walking up the stairs of 221B Baker Street.

"You know, I didn't really think these kinds of cases were your thing," he commented lightly from behind Sherlock on the stairs.

Sherlock let out a noncommittal huff before removing his coat and hanging it up. "Anything to fight off boredom, I suppose," he lied smoothly. He dropped onto the couch with a silent sigh.

John paused mid-way into hanging up his coat and stared at Sherlock. Sherlock could feel John's eyes roam up and down his body briefly. With a shake of his head, John finished hanging up his coat and placed his hands on his hips.

"You liar," he called Sherlock's bluff. "You're bored right now. I can tell." He shrugged and moved toward the kitchen. "Even I figured out most of our recent cases. You would never be satisfied with cases like that." Sherlock listened as John puttered around, making tea. "Your brain is probably rotting away as I speak."

He was right. Sherlock felt like he was shriveling up and dying where he lay. If he didn't get a stimulating case soon, he may very well hang himself from the banister. "They're morally grounding and just," he replied monotonously, his boredom leaking out in every word. He shut his eyes.

John laughed and Sherlock felt his chest warm at the sound. John didn't laugh nearly often enough, in his not-at-all-humble opinion. He heard John walk into the living room and opened his eyes. "Exactly. Not exactly your cup of tea." And he set a cup of steaming tea down on the table.

Sherlock couldn't help it. He smiled. "Tea jokes. Funny," he admitted, though he would also admit that coming from him, John probably thought he was just picking at the doctor instead of being sincere. Sherlock sat up, but didn't reach for his still steeping tea.

John took a seat in the chair across the table from him. He shrugged with a good natured smile. Sherlock wished he could capture that content expression with his camera. Just so that whenever John was upset with him, or when a situation seemed particularly dim, he could look at that picture and feel this calm wash over him. Except that if he took a picture right now, John would see it and then he'd ask questions and Sherlock refused to have that particular conversation.

He could still stare though. A mental picture was better than none.

…

…

"You know I didn't mean you _literally_ had to catch the perpetrators in every case, right, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked with a put upon sigh the next day. He'd called Sherlock in to hand him some newer case files. Sherlock had said he'd 'catch' the guys, and thus this.

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at the aging detective inspector. "That's what you pay me for, isn't it?" he asked.

Lestrade frowned. "I don't pay you."

"Exactly." He slipped the case files under his arm. "That means I don't have to take orders from you. You request my help because you need it. Now you have me for any case and not just the ones I choose, and you're abusing that power to a fault. So forgive me if I take a little liberty with the criminals," he answered testily.

Lestrade sighed. "Look. That's all fine, Sherlock. All I'm asking is that you call me _before_ you begin a chase across half of lower London."

Sherlock let his lips twitch upward a bit. "Then pay me."

"You know I can't do that."

"Then I won't call you until the case is over."

"Sherlock," Lestrade said in a warning tone. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. Not Sherlock's, no, that was safely in the deepest pocket of Sherlock's coat. It was Lestrade's phone. Eighteen months old, at least. Two years at most. Well taken care of. Mostly used for txting, rarely for actual phone calls.

Shaking all the superfluous details about Lestrade's phone from his mind, Sherlock frowned. Lestrade wiggled his phone back and forth suggestively and Sherlock frowned deeper.

"Not that I see there's a problem," Lestrade continued in an amiable voice, pocketing his phone once more, "but I know it means a lot to you to hide your feelings from the world. And I don't mind helping you. However….," he trailed off.

Sherlock tightened his shoulders minutely. "I'll give you a call later, then," he acquiesced.

Before Lestrade could respond, he was out the door.

…

…

One of the benefits of being an insomniac was that Sherlock got to experience a whole different side to John that no one else got to.

Well, no one except maybe Sarah. The homewrecker.

Point was, Sherlock got to see John sleep. And even though John and Sherlock were separated by a floor, Sherlock typically felt like he was standing right next to John's bed. The inner walls of 221B were not very thick, especially between the first and second floor. John's bedroom was directly above Sherlock's. Most nights, Sherlock entertained himself with trying to guess what John was dreaming about. Many times, in the beginning, there were nightmares about the war. But as time went on, those nights came less frequently, and that's when the real game began.

John was usually a quiet sleeper, but his more intense dreams made him talk. And when he spoke, he was very clear. John had dreams where he fought with Harry, where he cried about the death of his mother, where he spoke to his therapist about some random case of Sherlock's. Sometimes, the case they discussed never even happened, but they were always so interesting and entertaining that Sherlock didn't care.

Then there were times when Sherlock would actually venture up the stairs and into John's room and watch him. It took a week to learn just how to complete this goal. John woke to the slightest noise on the stairs, so Sherlock had to know where to step to avoid making any creaks or strains in the wood. If Sherlock moved in front of a light, lamp or moon or otherwise, that also woke John up. That had been really hard to explain….

It wasn't as if Sherlock was some sort of pervert or stalker or anything. It was just that sometimes, late at night, he needed to see John's face. John calmed the raging demons warring in Sherlock's mind. Even when Sherlock didn't speak aloud, thinking about a problem while in John's room helped him to think more clearly. And sometimes….sometimes he was being a weird stalker pervert, or something, because sometimes he really just ventured up to John's room to stare at him; to memorize the lines and dots and dips of John's revealed skin; to catalogue his visible muscles and features; to revel in the appearance of John's bare neck, arms, and chest.

Those nights when John was quiet in his room, when Sherlock was left lying in bed with nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company….He wondered how he'd survived without John in his life.

Those were Sherlock's thoughts while standing at John's door that night. He didn't go in. He just watched from the door.

The thought of being alone in this flat. The thought of chasing criminals by himself. The thought of facing Mycroft solo. Knowing he had John with him for all of that and more made Sherlock's chest swell in ways he hadn't thought possible outside of solving a major case. And even a case didn't make him feel as wonderful as John did.

All Sherlock had felt toward the world for so long was this unending bitterness. Why was everyone so stupid? Why were they so blind? But even though John wasn't as clever as Sherlock – he was barely cleverer than Lestrade when Sherlock first met him – Sherlock respected him. Maybe it was because John seemed to learn. He was getting smarter before Sherlock's very eyes.

But the fact remained that John had emotions welling up inside of Sherlock that he'd thought long deleted. He truly cared about the good doctor, but he didn't know how to act on that feeling. That's why he lashed out. That's why he hid it.

Watching John sleep peacefully, Sherlock thought about Lestrade. The boring cases were driving him into an early grave. But if he didn't keep doing them, Lestrade would tell John about the pictures. The obvious fix would be to delete the pictures from the phone. Except it seemed that Lestrade, like a good little chimp, had taken photos of Sherlock's phone with the pictures on it…and had sent himself copies of those pictures and his own photos so that Sherlock couldn't deny them.

Sometimes Lestrade was a good police man. Go figure.

How would John respond if Lestrade told him of Sherlock's feelings? Perhaps it was due to those feelings, but Sherlock could not fathom John's reaction. This was why he kept emotions out of his case work. He couldn't come to any conclusions with any sort of certainty!

Feeling frustrated and full of questions, Sherlock left John's doorway and slipped down the stairs to his own bedroom. He probably wouldn't sleep, but he wasn't going to stand and pine like an air headed school girl, barely into puberty, with her first crush. He could contemplate his predicament just as easily from the comfort of his bed.


	3. Chapter 3

"Finally!" Sherlock cried out triumphantly, holding up a case file.

John jumped and turned from putting the leftover Chinese in the fridge – next to a bone he was refusing to ask about – to stare at Sherlock in fright. "What? What happened?"

Sherlock stood up from the desk, still clutching the file. "Lestrade has finally handed me a case that's worth it! I was beginning to think he was intentionally boring me to death, but no. Here's one I would have picked up regardless."

John shut the fridge, a curious look on his face. He wandered into the living room at a leisurely pace while Sherlock bustled around with excited energy, flipping through other files and getting ready to head out all at the same time. Sherlock knew John was watching his every move, but he didn't care as to the reason right now. He had a good case at last!

"Sherlock," John called out calmly, stopping Sherlock at the door.

Sherlock turned back to him as he adjusted his coat. "Mm?"

"I've been meaning to ask this for awhile now, but….Does Lestrade have something on you?" he asked curiously.

Sherlock froze with his hands still on the collar of his coat. A moment later, he shook his head. "Ridiculous. Why?"

John shrugged. "I don't know. The cases. Usually you tell Lestrade to piss off if you don't like a case, but lately you've taken on every one of them, even though I can tell you hate them. Not that it's a bad thing, I mean it gets you out of the flat more often…but it's strange, you know?" He shook his head and crossed his arms lightly across his chest. "So, does he have something? Did you do something embarrassing or-or…something….bad?" he ventured cautiously.

A breath left Sherlock's body and it felt almost like his soul. He shook his head. "No. I haven't killed, maimed, or hurt anyone in any way," he assured his flat mate. John opened his mouth to argue, but Sherlock interrupted. "Now are you coming with me or am I without my trusted doctor on this one?"

For a moment, a look of indecision crossed John's face. Sherlock knew what he was thinking. John had work at the surgery early the next morning. He hadn't slept well last night due to a bad nightmare that persisted into the early morning. Did he really want to go gallivanting off with Sherlock, to get back at some ungodly hour in the night and probably sleep only two or three hours before heading off to work?

John let out a rough breath and Sherlock fought not to smile. "Alright," John gave in, already reaching for his coat.

…

…

"Wait wait," John tried as Sherlock led him back out of the flat of twenty-nine year old Sarah Albright. "I'm confused. Wasn't that our victim?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes. It was," he said gleefully. "That's what makes this case so interesting." They were outside and he turned around, grabbing John by the shoulders. He'd be lying if he said there was nothing personal in the motion. "A woman is found dead, stabbed in front of a market she frequented. Two hours later, that same woman is seen returning home by four of her neighbors, and has a long conversation with her mother over the phone. It's not possible, John."

John shook his head. "No. It is. Somehow," he fumbled.

"Exactly." Sherlock released John with a smile and continued walking.

After a brief pause, John hurried to catch up with Sherlock's long strides. Instead of hailing a cab, like they did to get here, Sherlock continued walking down the street while he thought.

Sarah Albright had no siblings. Her father died four years ago to a malignant tumor that was caught too late. Her mother was an alcoholic. John's sister was an alcoholic. That could be useful. But only if absolutely necessary.

Sherlock shook his head. Focus. Focus.

Sarah was a temp worker. She moved from job to job whenever an opportunity presented itself. However, she was very good at whatever she tried and made relatively good money. Her current job was at a gym not too far from her flat. She'd been working there for almost four months now.

So how does a woman with little social life, no steady career, and a somewhat estranged mother end up stabbed in the back and yet alive at the same time. A seemingly boring woman had just risen in rank on Sherlock's Most Interesting People list.

John may or may not have been on that list as well. Sherlock wasn't saying.

"We'll look into people at the gym first and go from there."

…

…

What actually ended up happening was that John got a hold of the employee list and the member list and started looking through them for anyone who might be connected while Sherlock schmoozed with the staff and people in the gym itself.

Everyone who worked at the gym knew Sarah Albright. She was friendly and dependable. She was always willing to help out. The more Sherlock heard, the less he could understand how she had enemies. Not that he believed it, but it seemed like most people thought of the woman as a saint.

After twenty minutes of talking with the staff, Sherlock felt drained. He hadn't told them why he was asking about Sarah. Most people didn't know she had died and come back to life yesterday. He had to keep up a 'My friend recommended this gym to me, but I think he really just likes your receptionist, Sarah. What can you tell me about her?' persona the whole time and it was exhausting. How did people manage to pretend to be interested so much?

"Found anything?" he asked as he came to a stop next to John.

John shook his head. "Not in the staff book, no. There was a complaint filed a few weeks ago, though. The only one at all at this gym in the past two months."

Sherlock tilted his head minutely to the side, letting his gaze travel up John's body until he could see the front door behind his companion. After several moments of silence, he sighed. "And it was?" he pressed.

"Oh. Right." John closed the binder in front of him and pulled over another. Flipping it open to this month, he pointed at the top of the page. "A woman named Christine Orr claimed that Sarah was harassing her and making it impossible to exercise. They marked it down as taken care of, but it's all I've found so far." He shook his head. "It's hard to believe Sarah would've harassed anyone. Everyone likes her."

"Hm…Is Christine Orr a member or was she a walk in?"

John opened a different binder and quickly flipped to a tab labeled 'O'. Four pages in, he stopped. "She's a member. Christine Orr. Twenty-nine. She's been a member for just about three months now. It looks like she's in pretty good physical condition from what's written here."

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "That's it," he breathed out. John looked up from the binder page in curiosity and saw Sherlock's gleeful face. "Oh, that's good. That's very good. Who would ever guess it? There's no obvious proof."

"Guess what?" John asked, only a tad testy. He was no doubt used to Sherlock withholding information by now.

Instead of answering, Sherlock shook his head. "We need to look into Christine Orr. Come on." Without waiting, Sherlock was out the door. John followed close behind.


	4. Chapter 4

John looked at the building in front of them with a look that was just as surprised and taken aback as Sherlock had expected. His own face was impassive. He'd already had an idea of what this place would look like.

They were standing in front of a building of flats, but it looked about ready to collapse. Half of the windows were painted over, crudely, and a few windows were broken. Those that were in perfect condition had the blinds pulled over them. There were no flowers or cats on the sills. The building itself had been on the receiving end of some of Raz's friends, no doubt, with graffiti all over the bottom forth of the walls.

"We must be at the wrong address," John choked out, looking down at the papers in his hands. "How could someone living here afford that gym membership?"

"Probably by not paying rent," Sherlock mused aloud before sauntering up to the front door. He didn't bother to knock, just turned the handle. The door opened with a creak without any resistance. "Helpful," Sherlock commented lazily as he continued inside. John was right behind him. "Keep your valuables hidden, John."

John didn't respond, but Sherlock knew he would listen.

A fuzzy TV was on in one of the bottom flats, and a children's show was playing. Sherlock bypassed all the doors on this floor and made his way up the stairs to the second floor. He stopped outside of number 9 and waited for John, who was only a step behind him. Turning the handle of this door had the same outcome as the front door.

"Wonderful security," John muttered as they stepped inside. "Though I guess they don't really have anything worth stealing, do they?"

"Careful, John," Sherlock warned offhandedly, "the ears and eyes of the destitute are everywhere."

Letting his eyes roam the main room, Sherlock began to understand. There was an old, grey couch in the middle of the room, facing an old looking TV that wasn't on. A potted plant was in the corner, looking rather on its last legs. That was it. The kitchen was visible from where he stood, and he saw that the walls were stained from the years of cooking and baking and frying that had occurred there without a good cleaning. Opening the fridge showed a jug of milk that had gone off and a box of leftover take-out; also past its expiration.

"I'd say Ms. Orr hasn't been in for three, no, five days," Sherlock mused aloud, even as John meandered into another room. He followed John down the hall and glanced in the door opposite where John went. "Judging from the state of the bathroom, she cares about her looks…but it's a recent change." The hair care products looked old and worn, but the make-up looked brand new; barely used. There were needles and a clump of hair in the bin. "She's a brunette. With hair to her mid-back."

"Sherlock," John called from the other room.

Any other time, Sherlock may have ignored the call, but John sounded worried. So Sherlock paused his thoughts and stepped quickly into the bedroom. John was standing by the head of the unmade bed, his back to the detective.

"What?"

John turned around and Sherlock saw he was holding a picture. "It was on the side table," he explained, holding it out to Sherlock.

Once he had a hold of it, Sherlock flipped the picture around to see what was so interesting. It was a picture of Sarah Albright, except it wasn't. The woman from the crime photos and the woman Sherlock and John had met was a young woman who prided herself on doing a good job. She was happy and full of life. The woman in the photo Sherlock held was more grimacing than smiling as a professional looking man wrapped his arm around her and smiled brightly for the camera. She didn't look dirty, but she didn't look particularly clean either.

A manic grin overtook his face. "Oh yes. I was right."

"Right about what?" John asked. "I want to say she was stalking Sarah, but-"

"Oh no, John, you'd be right. You've missed the point entirely, but you're not wrong on that fact," Sherlock interrupted. He pocketed the image. "Come on. We're heading back to Sarah's. We'll call Lestrade on the way."

…

…

As they walked up the steps to Sarah Albright's front door, Sherlock could still feel John's eyes on him. He'd heard what Sherlock told Lestrade on the phone, John's phone, and he didn't understand. But John had always loved it when Sherlock showed how brilliant he was. Sherlock wouldn't admit that he loved that John loved it. So John was silent, waiting to see how he'd figured it all out.

A short rapping of knuckles against the red wood of the door and a moment later a blonde beauty opened the door.

"Hello again," Sherlock greeted with a friendly smile.

Sarah blinked at them. "Oh, hello again," she greeted with a curious expression. "Did you need something else? You were just here this morning."

Sherlock nodded with a little bounce of his feet. "Um. Yes. Just a few more questions. Some new evidence was found that may-well, it's not really something to discuss…," he glanced around as if nervous, "publicly."

"Oh," she let out, "Then please, come in."

Regardless of her ready acceptance of them, Sherlock had seen how her smile dropped and her pupils widened when he mentioned new evidence. She wouldn't be hard to break.

They walked into the sitting room, but no one sat. Sarah moved a book and a magazine from one of the couch cushions to free up space, but neither John nor Sherlock took it. She dusted her pants needlessly and pushed her hair gently, nervously, behind her right ear.

"Now, what's happened?" Sarah asked in a mildly quieter voice. "Anything I can do to help?"

Sherlock shook his head. When he spoke, he'd dropped his friendly act and was simply himself. "Nothing's happened," he explained, "I just needed you to let us inside so I could prove how you murdered Sarah Albright."

"What?" John and Sarah said at the same time. Sherlock refrained from rolling his eyes.

"But I _am_ Sarah Albright," Sarah said, gesturing to herself. "How did I murder myself? How could I and still be standing here?"

Sherlock sighed and pulled the picture John had found in Christine's bedroom from one of his many pockets. He held it up so that Sarah could see it. Her eyes narrowed as she took it in, and then widened when she realized what it was. She was one of the slower people Sherlock had met. "A picture is worth a thousand words."

"It's a picture of me," Sarah half-breathed out. She shook her head. "So what? You have a picture of me. What's that supposed to mean?"

"Quite right," Sherlock quipped. He turned the picture to glance at it himself and then let it face Sarah again. "It is a picture of you."

"Right," Sarah agreed, her eyebrows coming together in confusion. "How does this prove I killed anyone?"

"Because this is not a picture of Sarah Albright." Sherlock set the image down on the coffee table next to where Sarah was standing. "Sarah Albright. Twenty-nine years old. She was adopted when she was just a year old and grew up in a happy, loving family. She did well in school and has a successful, if not secure, career path."

"Yes, I know that," Sarah interrupted with a scowl. "I lived it." But John had stopped breathing behind Sherlock and he knew that John had caught on.

Sherlock couldn't stop his grin. "No you didn't. Because your name is Christine Orr." Sarah took a step back, away from Sherlock, her eyes widening. "Born the twin sister of Sarah, but never adopted. The world seemed to forget about poor baby Christine. You committed petty crimes in your adolescence but have since cleaned up. Your flat shows the state of your life; barren, destitute, dirty," he frowned. "Sometime about three months ago, you're taking a stroll. Maybe it was the park, or past a café, or maybe you were in the market, but you saw her. You saw Sarah Albright and you knew who she was."

"You followed her. You saw where she lived and where she worked. You hated that she'd become more successful than you. You cleaned yourself up, dyed your hair, and used all the money from your pathetically low paying job to garner a membership at her gym. And there you proceeded to copy Sarah. You passed your days learning to walk like her and talk like her and move like her. You wanted to be her. But that wasn't enough, because you knew you never could be Sarah Albright. The world already had a Sara Albright."

Sarah was shaking now. She brought her arms up to hug herself and shook her head. "No."

"But instead of trying to better yourself and lift up your own life, you decided to just steal hers. So you already know her schedule, where she shops, what she likes to eat, how she dresses. You simply follow her to her favorite shopping mart and murder her in the night." He stepped toward Sarah and she shut her eyes. "You don't care if anyone finds the body because they can't prove you're not your sister. You have the same DNA, after all. But you forgot that Christine Orr still existed, that you still had a life. Your meager belongings have given you away."

Sherlock pointed at the photo. "No doubt you stared at this photo every night, cursing your fate and wishing to be Sarah. You have a photo of Sarah as well, probably brought it with you when you took over her life, that you also stared at every night, wishing to be her. Photographs are curious things. They can tell you so much about a person without a single written word. Luckily for us, this one has both."

"What?" Sarah whispered.

Sherlock bent and picked up the photo. Sarah flinched at his close proximity. He showed her the back of the photo. "On the back of the photograph. Christine and Dr. Williams, two thousand nine. The photograph shows a sign in the background, a bit blurry but legible. This is a picture taken when you left rehab, which sadly, has failed." He slid the photo back into his coat pocket and regarded the woman before him with a hint of disdain. "You'd never be able to keep up Sarah's healthy appearance for long, and you'd ruin both of your lives coming up with the money for the drugs. So, Christine, anything to say?"

He kept his frown firmly in place, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't enjoying being so right. Christine ran her hands up into her hair and held there for a moment. "I…" She looked up at Sherlock. There was something dangerous about her eyes. "Gimme my picture!" she shouted suddenly.

Before he had time to even step back, Christine had launched herself at Sherlock. He was taller than her by almost a foot, but she knocked him off balance and they both ended up in a heap on the floor. Sherlock let out a gasping groan when the air was shoved out of him. He felt Christine's hands in his pockets, but he barely had time to think about getting her off when she was off of him. She let out a yell as she was thrown backwards onto her rear, the contents of Sherlock's pocket going flying when her hands were ripped out of them. Christine watched the picture flutter and moved to get up, but John stepped closer to her and she froze.

"Why couldn't you just be satisfied with your own life?" John asked, sounding sorrowful. "You were making yourself so much better. You didn't need to kill anyone."

There was a knock at the door and Sherlock stood up. "That will be Lestrade, here to arrest you," he stated, fixing his coat before walking to the door. Pulling the door open, he said, "Late as usual."

"You'll have to explain to me how she's guilty later, Sherlock," Lestrade muttered on his way by. Sherlock smirked.

Lestrade and his boys in blue brushed past Sherlock and into the sitting room like good little bees, and John came to stand beside Sherlock to get out of their way. Sherlock rolled his shoulders and cleared his throat lightly, catching John's attention. Sherlock opened his mouth, but shut it immediately and pressed his lips into a fine line.

John smiled. "You're welcome, Sherlock." Sherlock nodded at him, but a smile crept onto his face as well. "Oh," John said suddenly, reaching into his pocket. "Here. It fell out along with the photograph."

He produced Sherlock's mobile with no flourish, but Sherlock felt his pulse quicken anyway. Sherlock kept his face neutral as he accepted it and placed it back into his pocket. "Thank you."

John nodded and hunched his shoulders for a moment, then let them fall loose as he let out a breath. "Dinner? It's been a busy day."

Sherlock let himself smile a tiny bit at that. "Of course."


	5. Chapter 5

For four days after that, Lestrade didn't call Sherlock about any more cases. It was strange, but expected. There were only so many cases Lestrade could have before he just…ran out. After all, he had an entire police force to work with, he couldn't give everything to Sherlock.

One of those days, John was off work as well. Sherlock snatched up the chance and suggested dinner and crap telly. The Chinese arrived five minutes late, but John didn't seem to care, and the two men hunkered down on the couch with their food.

While Sherlock quickly got angry with the idiots on the shows they were watching, John kept mostly quiet; except for when Sherlock yelled "Right, John? It's obvious, isn't it?" and then he said "You're absolutely right. It is." They finished the food rather quickly, but neither of them moved to clean up the trash. It just sat on the already messy coffee table next to old newspapers and files and magazine clippings.

Then, in the middle of a very serious conversation on screen between the TV hostess and one of her male guests, John suddenly burst into laughter. Sherlock regarded him warily.

"What on Earth is so funny, John?" he asked. "The man survived falling out of an airplane."

John shook his head. "No. It's not that. Sorry." He shook his head again and tried to stop smiling. "It's just….It's like 'dinner and a movie' for you, isn't it?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"People, when they ask other people out," Sherlock tensed, "they take each other to dinner and a movie. And I just realized, this is probably the closest you've ever gotten to something like that. Chinese and crap telly," he snickered. Sherlock didn't speak, didn't move, at all. John let out a content sigh and gave Sherlock a smile. "Too bad it's just me and not someone you like, eh?"

"I like you well enough," Sherlock said before he'd even thought about it.

John's smile dimmed and he gave Sherlock a mildly shocked and yet expectant look. Sherlock, for the life of him, could not decide what that look meant. And at the moment, he was more worried about covering his own slip than figuring it out.

"Come now. If I didn't like you, I wouldn't let you live in my flat."

John's eyebrows came together. "It's our flat."

A smile quirked Sherlock's lips, even as he focused back on the television. "That it is."

For several seconds, it seemed like John wanted to say something more. He clenched and unclenched his hands, tensed and relaxed his shoulders, and shifted his position on the couch a bit twice. Finally, John just let out a low breath and also went back to watching the T.V. Sherlock wondered what he would've said, but knew he would never ask.

…

…

Moments like these, Sherlock wished John didn't have a job. Moments where he was pit against someone three times his size with a brain the size of a sparrow but who was holding a rather impressively sized knife.

Luckily, he'd left a note for John on the fridge door saying where he was going and at what times. The file for the case was on the counter, lying on top of a sealed container of two week old mold, so John would also know what case he was on. He suspected John would show up within the next two minutes and twelve seconds.

The muscled man in front of him didn't really scare Sherlock. He would go down for the murder of three women regardless of whether he killed Sherlock or not. If he _did_ manage to kill Sherlock, it would simply be one more body against his case. However…John had said he was going to attempt to cook in their kitchen tonight, and Sherlock really wanted to be there to see it.

"You can put the knife down," Sherlock stated calmly, adjusting his coat. "There really is no point in fighting against me." The man opened his mouth to disagree, but Sherlock spoke right over him. "Regardless of how the fight ends, though I have no doubt of how it would end, you will still go to jail for multiple murders. I suspect the police to show up within the next few minutes."

As expected, the man's pupils dilated. He began to sweat. And in less than five seconds, he was turning to run from the room. Sherlock darted in front of him, using his smaller frame and quicker movements to get the upper hand, and stopped his progression.

"Out of my way," the man demanded.

Sherlock sighed. Brutes. "I'm afraid I cannot let you leave." He shrugged. "It wouldn't take much to find you again, but I personally can't be bothered with the hassle."

Faster than before, the man shot forward. He grabbed Sherlock by the scruff of his coat. Likely, he would have tossed Sherlock aside like a rag doll, except for the fact that just then John decided to make his entrance. He burst in through the door to the building Sherlock had cornered the criminal in, looking ready for anything. Almost without missing a beat, the oaf flipped Sherlock around and crushed him into his chest. It knocked the wind from Sherlock's lungs. Then the knife was at Sherlock's throat.

How unimaginative.

John pulled his gun out in one clean motion and leveled it at the man's head. "Put him down," he ordered. Even though he was much smaller than the man with the knife, he had much more presence. "Unharmed. Or I swear I will shoot you."

It seemed he actually intimidated Sherlock's captor with his words. The man's grip loosened on Sherlock ever so slightly. But then the sound of sirens penetrated the walls. Lestrade was on his way. The man's grip tightened again and he shook his head.

"I'll kill both of you if that's what it takes to get out of here," he threatened.

The knife nicked Sherlock when the man shifted his grip. A small line of blood trailed down the edge of the metal. Sherlock watched John's eyes follow it and wondered what he was thinking. In moments of danger, John was a book written in Gaelic to Sherlock. He couldn't read him.

"Let him go," John repeated in a dead serious tone of voice.

"Never!" The man shouted. He pulled the knife away from Sherlock's neck and extended it to his own left side. He was going to slit Sherlock's throat. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but stared always at John.

The gun shot echoed around them for several seconds. There was a clatter when the knife hit the floor, and then a heavy thud. The criminal was on the ground, Sherlock on top of him. His grip loosened and Sherlock rolled off of him and away.

"Shit!" the man cried out. He clutched at his upper right chest, where blood was blossoming.

John walked over to tower over the muscled man, and pointed his gun at his head once more. "Stop moving. You're only making yourself bleed out faster."

The man froze mid-movement. They heard the sound of many feet and then Lestrade bustled in with his men. There was a short pause in which Lestrade no doubt took in the scene before him, and then he was shouting orders to his men. "Get us a medical team, now! You men, cuff him!"

John stepped away from the criminal and over to where Sherlock was still seated on the ground. Within minutes, a medical personnel was sent over to them. They cleaned up the cut on Sherlock's neck and bandaged it in only a few moments, proving it really wasn't as big a deal as John would have probably made it out to be had he done the work himself.

When they were left alone once more, Sherlock looked up at John, but did not stand. "Good shot, John."

John sighed. "I don't think he realized how open he was. He probably thought you were covering him, but he's just so big," he said as explanation.

Sherlock rolled his shoulders. "People are stupid that way," he stated as he watched the police take care of his would be killer. His head bent forward with a blow from behind. "Ow."

"People are stupid?" John repeated. "People? Sherlock, you're the stupidest person I've ever met!"

"John?" Sherlock asked, confused. Why was he so upset?

"What if you had died?" John asked angrily. "What if I'd been too late?"

Oh. "My life isn't so important, John," he said. "Regardless of how intelligent I am, and in spite of your own high opinion of life, the world would indeed go on if I died."

John ran his free left hand over his face and let out a tired breath. He let his knees give out and fell to a kneeling position next to Sherlock. Locking eyes with the detective, he said, "Maybe the world would go on," he said, still sounding angry, "but in spite of your _insufferable_ nature… _M_ _y_ world would stop." He shook his head. "Dammit, Sherlock, doesn't that mean anything to you? My feelings?"

Sherlock blinked at John. He felt like his brain had come to a full halt, and he wasn't used to that. John was an emotional man. He cared about people and what food he ate and how he looked when he went outside and whether people liked him…But…His feelings…for Sherlock?

"John?" Sherlock asked in a breath. He couldn't form the question, and he hoped John understood.

John shook his head. "You're a hard man to love, Mr. Holmes," he let out, sounding tired, and fell back into a sitting position instead.

Sherlock's withered little heart felt like it burst. "How did you know I loved you?" he asked, trying to keep the awe out of his voice and mostly succeeding.

"Idiot," John said. "I didn't." Sherlock's expression turned confused and John smiled. "I do live with a great detective, you know, the greatest in the world, " he said, as if Sherlock were not that detective, "and he's taught me to notice things. Like how people act and what that says about them as a person. I noticed that you…well, you act differently with me than with anybody else. But I thought I was just projecting my own feelings into the situation…and then I saw your phone."

"Phone?" Sherlock repeated, sounding lost, but he knew his face must be showing his fright at least a little bit because John's gaze softened.

"Yes. Your phone," he clarified. "You used Lestrade's to tell me to bring yours when you'd left it one day."

That was ages ago, Sherlock thought.

"And I saw that it was open to your gallery and…it was all of me." John's cheeks were pink. "And then I thought, so you do like me, after all. But I thought if I made a move that you would deny it and pull away. And even if we're never together, Sherlock…I never wanted you to pull away," he admitted, his voice quieter than Sherlock had ever heard it. "So I've been waiting. For you to pull your head out of your arse and make a move yourself."

Sherlock frowned. "My head has never been in my-"

John laughed, cutting Sherlock off. "You know what I meant. Don't lie," he said.

Sherlock felt his own cheeks turn pink. John stopped laughing and they both simply sat there. John turned to watch the last of the policemen walk outside, except for Lestrade who was on the phone, but Sherlock kept his eyes on John. He knew John knew he was looking, but he was pretending he didn't. Sherlock felt his heart stir again, beating out of time, just from looking at John's profile. This man…

"Thank you," Sherlock said. John turned first his eyes, then his whole head, to look at Sherlock. "For waiting," Sherlock clarified. "Though you did fail in the end." His tone was back to normal now. "After all, you've admitted your feelings to me without waiting for me to speak first."

John smiled. "Well, a guy could die of old age waiting for you."

"A man could die of many things," Sherlock agreed, "especially when he accompanies me." He shook his head and stood up. John stood as well while Sherlock brushed himself off. When he was done patting himself down, Sherlock looked at John again. "I am not easy to care for, I know," he began, "which is why I've kept it to myself. But, since you seem to think you can handle it…For the record, I love you too."

John's face had never turned so red so fast. He shifted from foot to foot and it made Sherlock smile.

"Don't be so shy, John," he teased. "You said it first."

John opened his mouth to retort in some way, but then Lestrade walked over. "Good job, you two," he complimented with a smile. "I'll need you to fill out a report, especially concerning why he was shot."

John frowned, the red receding from his face. "Right. Sorry. That was me."

Lestrade wore a look that clearly read 'Well obviously it was you, I don't see Sherlock holding a gun' but didn't say anything. He motioned, instead, for John and Sherlock to walk out in front of him. John did without a word, but Sherlock waited a moment and locked eyes with the older man.

"By the way, Detective Inspector," he began coolly, "I won't be needing our arrangement any further. So any cases you've been dying to give me, you'd better hand out to your general staff."

Lestrade looked almost devastated at the news. Sherlock held in his laugh and followed John out the door. That was payment enough, but he could think of a few ways to get back at Lestrade for his round of blackmail.


	6. Epilogue

It was two weeks after Sherlock's secret had been revealed. Not much had changed for John or Sherlock, except that they tended to touch each other more than was normal or strictly necessary; such as when John passed Sherlock his portion of the Chinese and their fingers would brush, except that they made sure to brush and then linger. Then there was the kissing. Every evening after John returned home from the surgery and after every case they, or Sherlock alone, finished, and when John finally retired to bed because his sleep schedule was moderately normal and he had work in the morning, they kissed.

Sherlock had been expecting the conversation ever since the truth came out. He'd had a running gamble in his head about how long it would take, and what punishments he would give himself if he were wrong. He was dead right, however, to the day.

"Sherlock," John began, a question in his tone, as he puttered about, cleaning the kitchen in vain.

"Hm?" Sherlock responded as he glanced over a newspaper from two days ago. There was a particular instance mentioned on the third page that might have been a homicide instead of an accident.

John moved Sherlock's microscope to the other side of the table - without harming the experiment, Sherlock noted - and began wiping down the wood where it used to be. "I've noticed….All those cases you'd been getting," he said as a lead up. One thing Sherlock could always count on from John, however, was that he would get to the point faster than most. "They've stopped."

Sherlock folded the paper and laid down on the couch. His eyes traced the patterns of the ceiling. "Yes. They have."

John glanced over at Sherlock before continuing his mundane cleaning task. "Yes. But I was wondering why." He moved the microscope back into place and moved on to another portion of the table. "Why Lestrade was giving you them in the first place. Why you accepted them. Why you suddenly said 'no' again." He moved around to the other side of the table and shook his head at a bowl with some sort of liquid he didn't want to speculate about. "I noticed it stopped after that case where I-well, where we-when I shot that man."

Sherlock couldn't stop the smile that grew over his lips. It was fascinating to see John so flustered. Even with the kissing and the touches, it seemed that John was still embarrassed about the confession he'd made in that old house, in the aftermath of defying death once more.

"I was just wondering what changed," John ended lamely, turning to toss his now soiled towel in the sink full of dirty dishes.

Standing from his place on the couch, Sherlock took a few long strides quietly into the kitchen. He came up right behind John, though John didn't tense or flinch at the proximity. Sherlock placed his hands on John's shoulders, still thrilling at the idea that this was okay, and leaned his head down to speak quietly in John's ear.

"You," he said simply.

John turned his head to the side, confusion in his eyes. "Me?"

With a nod, Sherlock lowered himself further, until he could rest his chin comfortably on John's shoulder. His hands rested on John's upper arms now. "You see, Lestrade had learned a certain fact about me," he explained briskly. "And, for his silence, I agreed to certain…," he let out a scoff, "arrangements with our good inspector." John was beginning to smile but Sherlock pretended not to notice. "But I no longer require his cooperation, so I have ended it. He can now deal with me the way he always has; by defaulting to my opinion instead of his own."

"You mean he learned you were full of shit?" John asked teasingly.

Sherlock retracted from John swiftly and smoothly and instead reclined in the nearest chair at the table. John turned around to face him and Sherlock saw the laughing smile he wore.

"I don't understand," Sherlock insisted.

John shook his head. "Come now, Sherlock. I thought we were past all this," he admonished, though he couldn't stop smiling. "Lestrade found out you had feelings for me, didn't he? Otherwise the agreement between you two wouldn't have ended on the same day as when we got together."

"Oh I hardly think that two weeks ago counts as when we 'got together,' John. We've been living together for months," Sherlock countered.

Again, John just shook his head. "Either way, we admitted how we felt. And that's why you didn't need Lestrade anymore. You don't need to hide a secret you've already told."

Slowly, a smile formed on Sherlock's face again. It was something of pride. "Why, my dear Watson," he said, sounding congratulatory, "I do believe you may have a future full of intellect yet."

"I'll take that as a yes." John leaned down over the chair, Sherlock angled his face up a bit, and their lips met in a chaste expression of feeling.

Even when the kiss was over, John stayed close and neither man moved away. Sherlock felt John's breath ghost his lips and cheeks and his lips quirked upward once more. "Yes."


End file.
